


Routine

by Waffle-o (XylB)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: 7 days to die au, Gen, some descriptions of violence/gore but not graphic/detailed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 20:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XylB/pseuds/Waffle-o
Summary: The zombie apocalypse changed a lot. The landscape, the weapons, their routine.But, most importantly, it didn't change them.





	Routine

It got routine, after a little while. Walk, fight, settle down - until the horde got too much and then pack up. Walk. Fight. Settle down. Walk. Fight. Settle down. Sometimes they had a mocked-up minibike that could take one person - whoever was injured the most, or whoever pulled the long straw.  

Routine. Walk, fight,  _Jack where the hell are you going?!_ ,  _what the_ fuck  _is that_ ,  _Ryan do you have any more arrows_ ,  _oh shit a dog! a dog! fucking run!_ , settle down. Then the inescapable shuffling and moaning and  _clawing_ of the zombies, more and more fervent as the night went on, scratching and banging at whatever miserable shelter they had fortified for the night. 

It wore on them all. Still cracking jokes, still poking fun, but the toll was visible on everyone. Jack's hands were calloused from crafting, bandaged around all the knuckles and whatever ointment they could find rubbed in under them. Michael's were no better, though his came from fighting more than making. The sledgehammer was simultaneously the best and the worst weapon for that - heavy, and effective, but carrying it for more than a few miles was worse hell than the wasteland. 

_Wasteland_. Almost ridiculous, Gavin thought, that that's what they called it now. A broken-down road sign told him they were 14 miles from Jodie. The limp in Jeremy's gait told him they were 14 minutes from collapsing.  

"How's the splint holding up?" Geoff calls, glancing over his shoulder at Jeremy. 

"It's fine," Jeremy calls back, a strain in his voice. "Not uh - not much left in it, though." 

Geoff's mouth twists into a frown and he shares a glance with Ryan, whose forehead creases with worry. 

"There's probably country houses out here," Ryan offers, lowering his bow to scan the horizon. "We can stay in one of those." 

"You don't have to stop for me - " Jeremy starts, but Michael finishes. 

"Bullshit, your leg won't last," he says, and fixes Jeremy with a steely gaze when Jeremy opens his mouth to argue. 

"Prolly best to go now then, innit?" Gavin asks. "'Fore it gets too dark." 

"Probably," Ryan agrees, and glances at Jeremy again. 

"Which way?" Jack asks. They all shrug. 

"Right?" Gavin says, and they all shrug again. 

"You mean east?" Ryan jokes. 

"East, bloody west, who cares," Gavin laughs, and the sun glints off of Ryan's smile. 

"Let's go right, then," Geoff decides, and leads them off the asphalt and onto the sand. 

\-- 

Gavin can hear the zombies. He can't see them, not yet - the dusk makes shadows long and heartbeats loud, every slip of darkness a trick to the eye, and maybe there aren't any zombies at all but there's no more quiet nights and Gavin's long given up on getting any. 

Jeremy's only been getting slower and slower - now, propped up by Michael, he trudges along the cracked, dry ground, a new drip of blood soaking into the greying splint. Stitches have bust again. Gavin doesn't know if they have enough left for another suture. 

"I see a house!" Ryan calls - triumphantly, almost  _joyously_ , from the top of a rise, gesturing down beyond it and looking back at them. 

"Safe?" Geoff asks. 

"Maybe," Ryan says. "Don't see any zombs, but we'll check it out first. Definitely usable, though. Maybe some supplies still." 

"Here, Gav, take Lil J," Michael says, gently pushing Jeremy's arm around Gavin's shoulders. Gavin automatically catches Jeremy around the waist, but turns to Michael anyway. 

"Oi, why aren't you staying?" He asks, and Michael laughs, that pleasant little chuckle that ripples through him and makes his frameshake. 

"No offence, but," Michael starts, and Gavin feels Jeremy crack a smile against his shoulder, "We don't need you going down as well." 

"Hey," Gavin chides, mock-offended. "I can fight, you know." 

"Gav, all you've got is a club," Michael deadpans, and lifts his bow. "Remember this? An actual weapon? Oh right, you wouldn't, not when you dropped it down an  _elevator shaft_ \- " 

"That was an accident!" 

"And now you're a caveman." 

"You're mean." 

Michael laughs again and pats Jeremy on the shoulder. 

"Look after him, J. Make sure he doesn't get himself hurt." 

"Hey!" Gavin protests. 

"Will do," Jeremy replies woozily, swaying a little against Gavin. 

Michael bites back another little giggle and heads off to the rise. Gavin waves him off and then digs in his pouch for any Yucca he can give Jeremy, who's started to shiver by his side. 

The fight doesn't take long -  _sleeper! sleeper!_ Ryan screams, and Gavin hears the awful thunk-squish of arrows on zombies and the shuddery gurgling of the attack. The moaning falls silent with a disgustingly wet noise, and Gavin's suddenly glad he didn't peek over the rise. He glances at Jeremy, almost half-asleep on his shoulder, eyes glassy with pain, and doesn't even notice he's white-knuckling Jeremy's shirt as the others fight.  

_Fat asshole!_ Michael calls, and Geoff shrieks at something, and more horrible noises drift over the ridge.   _Lady! Lady! Behind you, Geoff!_ Thwack, gurgle, gone.  _Jack, duck!_ The hideous  _mmph_ of a sledgehammer and the resulting wet squeeze of organs - Gavin coughs and presses his head to Jeremy's, yucca juice dripping down his wrist in a slow, sticky crawl.  

"It's clear!" Ryan calls, just as the sun dips a little more, and Gavin steels himself with a breath before tugging his bandana up over his nose and mouth and slowly marching Jeremy to the steady down-slope beside the rise. 

There's viscera  _everywhere_. Blood soaking into the cracked, dry dirt, brains and rotten bone mashed into the nooks and crannies - Gavin looks away before it can get any worse, and dutifully shuffles Jeremy forward through the stench of zombie and onto the porch. 

"Michael, can you take care of those?" Geoff asks, and Michael nods, unhooking the can of gasoline from his belt to pour it over the bodies. 

Gavin carefully deposits Jeremy on the mouldy bed, and Ryan drops to one knee to examine Jeremy's leg, already holding out a hand for the medkit Jack plops into it a moment later. 

While they fix Jeremy up a little, Gavin and Michael take to exploring the house, heading upstairs with axes ready just in case they missed any sleepers in the original sweep. 

The upstairs is no more than two rooms - or, three rooms, Gavin supposes, although the wall between two is blasted away, jagged, burnt wood sticking out at the edges. 

"Oh fucking sweet, another bed!" Michael exclaims, tugging open the rotting drawers to root through them. "Hey Gav think we'll find any old weed?" 

Gavin laughs. "Maybe an old come-sock." 

"You'd know all about those, right?" 

"Hey!" 

Michael chuckles good-naturedly and rifles through mouldy magazines - Gavin wanders to the other, smaller room, which is in much better shape. The paint is still intact, a soft, delicate blue sticking there in flaky patches, whatever's left marred by dirt and grime. The window has long been broken, and a pile of collapsed wood in the corner catches Gavin's eye. 

They're poles, all stacked messily on top of each other, the varnish melted away and the underneath charred, and Gavin realises with a grim sort of nonplus that this used to be a nursery. 

All he can hope really is that whoever was in the crib made it out okay. 

He turns to the playfully pink closet in the other corner, one door ajar and hanging precariously off of one hinge. Michael calls out triumphantly in the other room, followed by the joyous sound of crinkling bags and rations that someone left behind. 

The room is surprisingly bloodless; either cleaned or just fortunately impervious, and nothing but dust comes away on Gavin's fingers when he eases the closet door open. The shelves are mildewy and grimy, a few indistinguishable books wasting away on the topmost one, the second rotten clean through, on the third is -  _is_  

It hisses moments before it lunges - Gavin scrambles back, arms pinwheeling, and the cat drops heavily to the floor, yowling  _furiously_ as it arches, fur bristling all along its spine right up to its stiff tail. but it doesn't pounce again. Gavin backs up to the wall, panting for breath as the sounds of footsteps crash up the stairs and down the hallway and 

"Wait," Gavin says when Michael appears in the doorway, Geoff and Jack behind him. 

"Wait," Gavin repeats, quieter, and the cat stops yowling to hiss at the newcomers instead. 

"Holy  _shit_ ," Michael says, and Geoff obediently tugs them all back. 

"Did it scratch you?" Jack asks, and Gavin shakes his head, eyes carefully focused on the cat. 

"It's not a zombie," Gavin says, slowly dropping into a crouch. 

"Hey, wait, we can't - " Michael starts, but Gavin shushes him. He cautiously creeps forward a step - the cat hisses again but doesn't howl, bristling all over but not attacking. 

"We're not zombie," Gavin says quietly. "That's why he hasn't gone for us." 

"Yeah but he might change his mind," Geoff says. "Gavin, it's dangerous, let's just - " 

"No," Gavin insists, and eases himself to sit instead, extending a gentle hand to the cat. "I'm staying with him." 

"Oh my god," Michael whispers, fondly exasperated, and Jack just nods, clapping a hand to Geoff's shoulder and urging him back. 

"You staying, boi?" Gavin asks when Geoff and Jack have disappear downstairs. Michael sighs and glances at the cat, back at Gavin. 

"Sure," he says, and sits down in the doorway. 

\-- 

The cat is understandably jumpy, flinching at every sudden move and hissing when it's scared, but it gradually relaxes where it's standing, sitting down carefully while Gavin tears off strips of chicken jerky to toss over. 

It's been a couple hours like this, sat together, talking idly while the others shore up fortifications downstairs, split their rations for dinner. Michael takes his turn trying to tempt the cat over, but the contemptuous glare it gives him makes Gavin burst into giggling, and the sound makes the cat's gaze snap back to him, wary. 

It's a quiet night, by the sound of it. A few scratching/howling/moaning/shuffling zombies outside, and all disposed of with neat  _thwip_ s. The loudest sound is Jeremy's laughter and the crackling fire, and together with the little bowls of soup Geoff hands out, it's almost like before. 

Before. Gavin doesn't think about it much anymore - he doesn't think any of the others do, either. At best it's wistful nostalgia, and at worse it's depressing. All the things they've lost. All the people. 

Gavin doesn't think about it much. He likes to think that people made it out. That there's somewhere out there, some sort of civilisation, that they just haven't found it yet. 

"Pubert," Michael says, a twinkle in his eye and a growing grin on his face. Gavin tosses his head back with a laugh. 

"I'm not naming him bloody  _Pubert_ , Michael!" 

"Pubert? Little Pubey?" 

"Little Pubey!" Gavin exclaims, shoulders shaking hard enough he almost drops the jerky. 

"Hey, Pubey," Michael says to the cat. The cat meows. 

"No, no, you're not tainting him with that," Gavin protests. "Name him something good. Like uhhhh - " 

"Quim? Flange? Good ol' Popson?" 

With each new name, Gavin shakes with more giggles, tears filling in his eyes as Michael trips over his own laughter trying to keep up the flow of suggestions. 

"Bastard, Grimpsie, Nicky-doo, Codswallop?" 

" _Codswallop_ ," Gavin wheezes, doubling over. 

"Yeah? Codswallop? Good ol' Codders?" Michael jokes. 

"Codders," Gavin wheezes again, and Michael breaks down into incomprehensible giggling, wiping tears away from his eyes. 

"Hey, Codders," Gavin says when he's regained his breath, tossing another chicken strip.

Codders meows once and gobbles it down. 

\-- 

"So what, we've got a cat now?" Ryan asks, the next morning. 

" _Gavin's_ got a cat," Michael corrects. 

"Gavin and Jeremy've got a cat, by the looks of it," Geoff adds, glancing over at where Codders is perched between Gavin and Jeremy on the mouldy sofa, leaning into the gentle pets Jeremy's giving. 

"We've got a cat," Jack says. 

"Don't have far to go, anyway," Ryan reasons. "Until we settle down again." 

"How long?" Michael asks. 

"Few days, if we stop early," Ryan says, eyes drifting away like he's picturing his map in his head. "Unless we definitely want to hit snow." 

"Sweet," Geoff says. "We moving today?" 

"Depends on Jeremy's leg." 

"Jeremy, how's the leg?" Jack asks. 

"What? Oh, uh, it's fine," Jeremy says, clearly not fine. "I can walk." 

"No you can't," Michael says. 

"No, I can't," Jeremy sighs, shoulders slumping. "You guys can go on without me." 

"No way," Geoff and Jack say in unison. Ryan nods. 

"We've hammered this place up pretty good," Gavin says, laying a hand on Jeremy's shoulder. "We can stay here for a bit."

"We're not leaving you behind," Michael adds, and Jeremy's gaze flicks between them all. 

"Wouldn't mind if you did, though," he says, in a quiet, grim sort of acceptance. They've all seen it before. Stragglers, the wounded left behind, left to fend for themselves. 

Gavin remembers, briefly, the group they came across last autumn - group of about six, or so, and a man with a badly broken ankle.

Ryan had tried to help them. But Gavin remembers, too vividly, the silhouettes of five on a hill, the setting sun on the horizon, and the gun. And the gunshot. And all too clearly, the zombies that descended on the body when the five had left. 

He shakes the memory away like a beetle off his arm, drops his hand from Jeremy to pet Codders instead, scratching gently behind his ears and stroking lightly down his flank. They're not like that group, he reminds himself. They take care of each other. 

"We're not," Ryan insists, and Geoff steps forward to sit down beside Jeremy, all of them gravitating closer. 

"Anyway," Gavin says, smiling at him. "Who'd help me with Codders?" 

Jeremy laughs, and the room brightens. 

\-- 

"What if Codders finds a Mrs. Codders?" Michael asks, twigs cracking under their footsteps. Gavin laughs and looks down at Codders, trotting alongside them with a mouse in his mouth, looking as pleased as can be. 

"Then she'll be a very fortunate lady," Gavin replies - Jack barks out a laugh from ahead of them, and the whole group collapses in giggling. 

"They grow up so fast," Geoff playfully laments, pressing a hand to his forehead. 

"Are you talking about Codders or us?" Jeremy asks, and Geoff breaks into fresh laughter, shaking his head. 

They're not far from their destination - which should be, if Ryan's directions are correct, only another mile or two after this hill. Jeremy's limping much better today; still slower than usual, but that's okay. It's only noon, so they'll have plenty of time to shore up the new place before zombiefall. 

Light chatter fills the gaps, all from vague complaints about the sun to thwacking each other with thin twigs to make people jump - Michael gets a quite rewarding shriek from Geoff that makes them all crack up and a couple of zombies shuffle over. Ryan dispatches those with quick _thwip_ ,  _thwips_ , and Jeremy searches the bodies, and Codders sniffs the clothes, and they move on. 

Routine. Walk, fight, settle down. Walk, fight - adopt a cat, thwack Geoff with a stick - settle down. 

Gavin's glad they aren't like that other group, the one that came into Texas as six and left as a decided five. He's glad for their routine, because despite the fighting and the hardships, he knows that when they reach the new house Michael'll say 'check out these sweet digs' and Geoff'll put spikes in inconvenient places, and Ryan'll try to make a minibike, and Jack'll fool around, and Jeremy'll be scared of going on the roof. Because that's all part of the routine. Of  _their_ routine, of jokes and laughter and upbeat banter despite the apocalypse, and Gavin wouldn't trade it for a whole fleet of minibikes.  

(It's Jeremy, when they get there, who exclaims _sweet digs!_ , but does it in such an exaggerated Jersey accent that it might as well have been Michael.) 


End file.
